My Love
by bejome
Summary: Inspired by the Sia song. Spoiler warning. After the events of Mass Effect 3, Garrus has a lot to deal with and reflect on. One shot. Shakarian.


Garrus stood watching the sunset over Cipritine.

There wasn't much to it in the days after the Reaper invasion. Most of what his eyes gazed over were still piles of smoldering rubble, with body counts not fully amassed undoubtedly laying beneath them. In the distance, a few structures that were desperately trying to cling on to what was left of their balance tipped precariously in the breeze. It was a futile effort. For Palaven, for the galaxy, to gain itself back it was going to have to let go of what it lost.

That thought struck an icy nerve in Garrus' heart.

The turian sighed, shaking his head and turning back into his makeshift apartment. The furnishings were comfortable, but they weren't homely. Granted, given the galaxy's situation Garrus knew he could hardly complain. There was just something he wanted that wasn't here.

In reality, if the turian were to be honest with himself he didn't even want to be here.

Palaven now held far too many painful memories, or perhaps more appropriately, the hopes of memories that would never be.

Garrus had lost too much to consider this home anymore.

He sighed again and settled down on the edge of his bed. It was larger than he was used to, which made for strange and sleepless nights whenever he bothered trying to sleep. Despite Palaven's intense heat, the sheets and pillows were always too cold for comfort no matter how long he lay in it or tossed around in them. It made him feel out of place and lonely.

Garrus watched as the sunlight painted the floor of his abode vibrant shades of red and orange. The warmth and passion of the color made him feel even more devoid of emotion, and it bothered him. He stood up again, pacing along the floorboards. Once in a while a ship would cross over the sunlight's path, darkening his surroundings.

Like an idiot, he kept looking up, hopeful.

Each time, he was sorely disappointed.

That was when the pain would bubble up and threaten to overwhelm the turian in his steps. He couldn't accept that he would probably never see the Normandy fly again. And if, somehow, he did come across it…she wouldn't be on it.

With that, Garrus collapsed onto the bed with his head in his hands. He traced the familiar scar along the right mandible of his face. The turian closed his eyes and started to recall the day he had gotten it. In a way, it had been one of the best days of his life. One's best friend didn't often come back from the dead, after all, and that day Shepard had stood before him after two years of being proclaimed dead and rotting in an unknown, unmarked grave, with her arms wide open and a smile that rivaled Palaven's sun. For the first time in a long time Garrus had felt as though someone cared about where he was and what he was doing. After leaving everything and everyone behind, the one person that had found him was the ghost that he had been trying to outrun, and yet had managed to haunt him at every turn.

If he hadn't been so tired he might have even hugged her that day.

The memories after that were scattered. The rocket, the explosion…he could remember Shepard yelling his name, cradling his head as they brought him onto a stretcher so they could get him to the ship, and then nothing until he woke up and talked to her in the war room. He remembered her smile. She'd been worried.

So had he.

He traced the scars again, remembering the feel of her hand with its foreign yet comforting five digits in opposition to the three that turians had. Her touch had always mystified him. It was such a strange concept that a woman with so much strength could be so soft. But then, that observation went for all humans.

Garrus' mandible clicked as his eyes twitched in distress.

If any of his non-turian friends had been nearby, they would not have understood those signs.

Turians didn't cry, not the way other races did. Humans, asari, drell and quarians were known to shed tears in some liquid form or another. Turians did not. Their bodies did not possess the chemicals that these other races did which require expedition for the release of built up hormones. Furthermore, they didn't even have the appropriate glands in their eyes that would provide those tears.

Instead, turian grief showed mostly through body language and facial cues. Slumped postures and the inability to look an addresser in the eye was often a common sign. Over extended periods of mourning, eyes would sink into the face and their structural plates on their face would become brittle and chip. If the emotional pain was very intense they could often wail and scream as humans would, only lacking tears.

Ever since Garrus had returned to Palaven, that sound had been fairly commonplace.

He stood up again, ignoring the coldness of the sheets and drew up a few of his bags that had what few belongings of his which remained. Garrus decided that, in the interest of staying proactive, it was perhaps best to start unpacking.

It was a little unnerving to realize how little clothing he had outside of his armor. Two, three changes of clothes at the most? Spirits, how did he ever manage? Did he really wear his armor that often while aboard the Normandy? The turian folded them as best he could (reminding himself to take notes from his sister when he found her) and packed them away in the units next to his bed. There were boots, some gloves, and much to his bemusement a burnt up thermal clip. Garrus reflected quizzically on how this could have made it into his luggage before grabbing the toiletries case. This was also light, but it featured a few of his soaps that he was required to carry with him on the Normandy as they often ran out of everything except for the lava soap that every crew member complained about. He'd tried it once, and he could understand their hatred for it all too well.

He placed everything on the counter, sighing sadly as he hid away a few of the colognes he had purchased for his dates with Shepard. She'd always said that she liked them, but he could never be completely certain if the scents turians found appealing were equally enjoyable to human noses. Garrus placed them in a small box and stashed them in the back of one of the drawers next to the sink. He never wanted to see them again, but didn't have the heart to throw them away either.

It only took a few moments to clean out the rest of the toiletry box, leaving one small glass bottle that he did not recognize tucked unwanted in the smallest resources of its corner. He lifted it hesitantly, testing its weight in his hand. This was definitely unfamiliar, and only half full at that. Garrus certainly had no memory of purchasing this trinket, and was about to throw it away until its name caught his eye.

Garrus froze.

This wasn't his. He didn't know why it had been in his luggage, and he couldn't for the life of him start to fathom how it had gotten there.

The bottle was Shepard's. It was her perfume, or the closest thing to perfume that she had ever possessed. The scent, and the word on the label, was purely human. He wasn't even sure how to pronounce it.

"Cinnamon vanilla."

He said it out loud, testing the words on his tongue. He knew vanilla was a flavor that humans were partial to, second to chocolate. The first word, however, he did not recognize at all. He was curious, but hesitated. This was the last thing he would ever have that could bring back all of his memories of Shepard back (humans weren't the only species who's memory was tied closest to smell). Did he really want to waste it now with his curiosity?

To hell with it, he figured. It was going to happen sooner or later.

Garrus sprayed it once into the air, careful not to break the bottle. He waited for the mist to fall, and felt it as it settled on his face, his clothes, his closed eyelids…his scar. He reached up and expected to feel Shepard's hand in mid air, reaching for his face.

It wasn't there.

In that instant, it took more out of Garrus than he thought it would. The familiarity and the loneliness hit him like a collector's cruiser. Dry sobs wracked his body as he fell to the floor, the bottle dropped from his hands as he cradled himself: the grief that was building within his torso felt as though it would rip him apart. And that smell, that damn smell kept lingering even though he wanted it to go away.

Why had this been in his bag? What matter of cruelty had caused fate to bestow upon him this possession? He felt anger surge within him and grabbed the bottle in his fingers, about to toss it in his rage and grief…but he held back. He remembered how much he had loved this smell on her despite its unfamiliarity, and further more how much he had loved the woman that had worn it - and how well it had embodied her. A sweet and spicy aroma…everything that was Shepard wrapped up in this tiny, half full…half _empty_ bottle.

The amber liquid danced within the glass, between his hands, and he stared at it for immeasurable minutes. He couldn't part with this small momentum of a past as precious as what this represented.

Garrus stood and placed the bottle in the small shelf next to his colognes. It seemed fitting.

Then he went to bed where the cold sheets waited for him.

A few hours later Garrus awoke from a nightmare, startled. Habit told him to make sure he hadn't disturbed Shepard out of her sleep, only to remember that she wasn't there anymore. His throat tightened as he forced himself to look away from the empty space.

He hated having such a large bed.

Garrus piled all but one of the pillows up on the vacant side and watched the moon rise over Cipritine's ruins. This city would never be fully rebuilt again in his lifetime. Much like himself. He knew he should move on. Shepard would have wanted him to…but it wasn't that easy. It would take time, and Garrus was honestly not sure if he would could.

The turian headed to the washroom and splashed cold water on his face. This did nothing to ease his distress. Instead it only acted as an irritant to his eyes. A glance in the mirror showed that they were sunken deep into his head, a telltale sign of turian mourning.

Garrus glanced around, his eyes setting on the drawer where he had placed Shepard's perfume.

He knew better. He knew that he was only going to make his pain worse if he did what he was thinking. But if it eased the pain tonight…that was all he needed, just one night of sleep.

Slowly, Garrus stalked from the bathroom with the perfume bottle in his hands. He only afforded two sprays, but it was enough. The warm aroma hit him and suddenly the grief came on in new waves. He set the bottle down on his bedside stand and curled into the pile of pillows, wrapping his arms around them and closing his eyes.

Sleep eventually came to the turian. With his face buried deep in the smooth, cool pillows, just before he slipped into fitful slumber, he almost could have sworn he felt a hand on his face, and the spoken promise of a ghost dancing just around his ears:

_"You'll never be alone…"_


End file.
